Knights of the Stone Dragon
by ChaosWolf021
Summary: The Oblivion crisis is five months past, but the Champion has vanished, war rages between the northern provinces, and rebellion looms within the Imperial province. Within the shadowy corners of the Imperial city, betrayal and bloodshed await their release
1. Chapter 1

**The Elder Scrolls:**

**Knights of the Stone Dragon **

**Book 1**

Only a limited amount of light came in through the barred window at the top of her cell. Like a small beam of hope shining down onto the cold stone floor of the Imperial dungeon. Vieira shied away from the light, preferring the seclusion of the shadows that enshrouded the scratchy straw that made up her bed. Her ember red eyes stared blankly at the empty wall in front of her. The tiny scratching of claws and almost inaudible squeaks filled the air as small rats scurried along their way searching for some small crumbs of food on the dirty floors.

She had once been comfortable in life, back when she lived in Morrowind. She had been a member of the Morag Tong; an assassin. Then she had retired from that life, moved to Cyrodil to escape her province, and the trouble that was brewing there. That had been only a year ago when she left her home to come dwell in the Imperial province. She killed a man in a bar fight, snapping his arm and slitting his throat open with a broken bottle. Imperial soldiers arrested her, and threw her in her to rot. That had been nine months ago.

At first she had tried to condone her actions. The man had been insulting her race, had been picking fights. He deserved what happened to him. Slowly Vieira came to realize that she was nothing more than a cold hearted killer. Now she simply sat here, in her cell, awaiting death, accepting her fate.

From down the hall came the heavy thump of steel boots walking towards her cell, every other thump accompanied by a much lighter tap of wood against stone. The sounds reverberated down the torch lit corridors. Still Vieira stared dead ahead, refusing to take her gaze from the wall. In her peripheral vision she saw a man in Legion's armor step in front of the bars. She couldn't see any details of his face because of the low lighting and the shadows caused by the pale blue hood he wore in place of a legion helmet.

"Vieira… no family name, no parents, no home. Quite the life you've led," the man said. Vieira could tell by the accent that he was an Imperial.

"I had a family name, I had parents, and I had a home… just not anymore," Vieira responded simply.

"No, the Morag Tong takes that away, makes you a shadow to strike out against the enemies of Morrowind," the man said stepping closer to the bars, visibly showing he was unafraid of the murderer behind the steel.

"Your point? Did you come down here to prattle? If so you're wasting your time," Vieira muttered darkly, making sure her words were loud enough for the visitor to here.

To her surprise a chuckle emanated from beneath the hood as the stranger crouched down before the bars. With a single hand he reached up and pulled back his hood revealing a middle aged man with a shaven head and dancing green eyes. Despite the few wrinkles that marred his face he was quite handsome, perhaps it was the friendly smile or the sincerity of his expression.

"No, no dear Vieira. I come instead with a proposition to better serve the empire than you would rotting here behind bars," the man said.

Vieira shifted her gaze finally from the wall to her visitor, intrigued and cautious.

"Who are you?" Vieira asked after a moment of silence.

"My name is Lucien Deridius, battle mage of the Imperial Legion, commander of the Knights of the Stone Dragon," the man said, bowing his head slightly.

The Knights of the Stone Dragon, Vieira had never heard of them. Perhaps they were a newly organized faction within Cyrodil, but by whom and for what purpose?

"What is your proposition?" Vieira found herself asking. She did indeed want out of this dungeon, and she had always been loyal to the Empire, and even taken lives for it, though that fact was occasionally arguable.

"To take up your dagger once more assassin. Become an assassin of the Knights, kill the enemies of the empire. Help us hold it together against the storm that brews against us," Lucien said, his tone taking on one of desperation, of hope, of determination. All these emotions were mixed across his features.

Vieira looked away from him for a moment, staring down at the floor. After all the running she had done to escape the darkest corners of politics she was being pulled back in, perhaps even to be asked to return to kill in the name of the Emperor.

Would she be able to do it after being discarded like this? She let out a sigh, despite her heritage her heart was loyal to the Empire and she would do as was asked of her. She looked up towards the ceiling of the cell, as if looking to the Nine for guidance.

She let out a breath and pushed a stray lock of dark hair from her eyes before turning her head towards Lucien and nodding her head slightly, letting the man know her answer. The battle mage stood and gestured to someone Vieira couldn't see with a movement of his head. One of the guards came into view and he stepped in front of the gate.

He couldn't look Vieira in the eyes, not after the way he had treated her for the past nine months; just like every other criminal that had come through these dungeons. Now that she was being released he almost felt embarrassed. Vieira couldn't blame him for his actions; the man had been surrounded by the scum of Cyrodil for his entire term as a dungeon guard, and his prejudices against any criminal would be unmatched by anyone who had not set foot in these dank halls.

Vieira's sharp ears easily heard the guard's key rattling its way into the gate's lock, heard it turn, pushing the tumblers up and out of the way. The guard pulled the cage open, the ancient metal squeaking loudly.

Once the gate was opened the guard walked off, Lucien stood in the opening looking down at the assassin. Vieira looked up at the battle mage, matching his gaze.

"It's time to fight Vieira, your past is forgotten, it is the future that matters now," Lucien said, extending a hand for the Dark Elf. Vieira raised a hand, firmly grasping the offered hand.

* * *

Rain fell across the sandy floor of the Arena. Lightning punctuated the announcers voice as he announced the Arena grand champion. To the general public, he was known as Exodus, to those closer to him he was Hansel Steel-Fists Master of the Fighter's Guild. Despite the Daedric claymore he had claimed as a relic from the times of the Oblivion crisis, strapped across his back, he was going to show tonight why he had earned his title.

Tonight's adversary in the blood soaked ring of death was nothing fancy. A simple grizzly bear that had been captured in the wild, all for the entertainment of the people of the Imperial City. Hansel smiled as he went through the motions of cracking his knuckles, though it was difficult with the Orcish gauntlets on his hands.

The gates slid down, and Hansel strode into the Arena amid the cheers of the people. The grizzly bear at the other end slowly wandered in, looking around in confusion for a moment. Hansel smiled, rain dripping from his brow.

"Over here you great big fuzz ball!" he yelled, crashing his gauntlets together.

That got the grizzly's attention. It let out an agitated roar and started a run towards Hansel, rage across the beast's features. Once it got close enough to the man it stood on its hind legs and brought a fierce paw back to swipe at the large Nord.

Hansel would have none of it, rushing in and punching the bear square in the nose. He couldn't hear the crunch of bone over the rain and cheers of the audience, but he could feel it, and could see the gush of blood that ran from the animal's snout. The creature stumbled, and Hansel punched again, his left fist crashing into the beast's eye.

The small spikes he had put on his gauntlets tore into the grizzly's vulnerable eye, ripping it open and leaving deep cuts along the side of its face. The might of the blow caused it to stumble again. Hansel again struck out with his left fist, crashing again near the animal's ruined eye.

It let out a roar of pain finally falling over. Months as Grand Champion had taught Hansel one thing; there was no mercy in the ring, especially for creatures that did not know the concept of mercy.

Before it could get up Hansel slammed his foot down on its chest, and began to deliver punches that fell like the rain onto the creature's face and throat. It wasn't long before he had pulverized the life from the large beast, and the crowd erupted into cheers of victory for their hero.

Hansel stood over his adversary and shook his head. All this bloodshed for entertainment. As Master of the Fighter's Guild, sometimes it disgusted him, but he knew the necessities of keeping the populace entertained, and so he partook in these blood games, though he hadn't had to kill another person in here… not since the Gray Prince.

He shook his mind of that murder, and looked down at the bear, and gently laid his hand on its chest, over its heart.

"You may rest now," he said quietly.

With that said he stood and started the seemingly long walk back to the Bloodworks. Why was it so hard coming out of that ring?

Hansel shook his head as the gate closed behind him.

* * *

The waves of the Abecean Sea rocked the ship violently, sailors ran across the rain slick decks struggling to keep the _Sea Owl_ on course for Anvil. Lightning flashed across the sky, illuminating the distant shore of the Gold Coast. Alayna Wolfblade stared at it, wishing she had her feet back on dry land. She was not cut to be a sailor.

One of the sailors slipped on the wood, falling towards the sea as the ship was tilted.. Alayna's warrior reflexes allowed her to move and catch the man by the back of his collar. When the ship righted itself again he was able to get back on his feet, offering Alayna a nod of thanks before running off to do his job.

The warrior stood on the deck, her cloak sodden with rain, clinging to her form, which was also soaked. Droplets of rain dripped from the woman's charcoal coloured hair, running over her face. She was thankful for leaving her armor and sword with her friend in Anvil. The sea worried her and she didn't want to risk losing it.

Instead she had a simple steel longsword strapped to the belt around her waist. She hated being unarmed. Not as much as she hated being at sea though.

Another bolt of lightning tore across the sky, illuminating the shore once again. Alayna looked towards it longingly.

"By the Nine!" someone shouted, and Alayna turned to see a massive wave beside the _Sea Owl_. The wall of dark water lifted the ship into the air, starting to turn it. Someone opened the door to the decks below, shouting down for everyone to get out.

It was too late, Alayna watched as the man in the crow's nest fell out, falling into the water with a hardly noticeable splash. Alayna didn't see his said pop back above water. Sailors were running around in a panic now, a desperate last ditch effort to keep the boat up, even though they all knew they were going to capsize. No one attempted to save the fallen observer from the crow's nest. He was as good as gone.

Alayna never asked anything from the Nine, and she wasn't about to change that now even in the face of death. Her fate was her own, even as she felt the boat tipping more. She fell and was sliding, much like that sailor she had saved.

No one was going to save her though, so many others were falling into the storm swept sea. So many lost off the shores of the gold coast.

Alayna slipped off the edge of the ship before it completely capsized, and crashed into the dark waters that swallowed her. The cold stabbed at her like a thousand knives. She wanted to scream but knew it would kill her. Her hands reached for the surface, or what she hoped was the surface. There was only darkness, she had lost sense of up and down. It seemed like she was under the water for eternity, searching for salvation.

Eventually her head burst out of the water, she sucked in a deep rasping breath through the pain of the cold. She couldn't see anybody else, could only see the bottom of the ship's hull. She kicked with her feet, treading water, trying to keep herself afloat, but it seemed a hopeless cause. Her body was already going numb, her arms already getting tired. Her jaw chattered.

At that moment a few pieces of wood drifted by, apparently parts of the ship had broken off. She desperately drabbed at a long plank, holding onto it desperately with numb fingers. She rested her head on the wood, feeling the rain patter across the side of her face. She had no energy, she felt tired.

Slowly, Alayna Wolfblade drifted off into unconsciousness, and drifted in the sea at the mercy of the storm.


	2. Chapter 2

**Book II**

Titus Pullo kept his eyes ahead, swaying slightly as his horse trotted calmly down the road. The sound of birds chirping in the trees, and hooves clopping on the ground filled his ears.

A single bead of sweat rolled down his brown from beneath the steel of his legion helmet. The sun above was at its zenith and the day was as hot as any Titus could remember this past month. He found himself almost wishing for a bit of a light drizzle, though memories of the storm from the night before cast those wishes away.

He was just returning from Anvil, and a few of the guards had told him that three ships that were supposed to come in during the night still weren't anywhere to be seen this morning. It was more than likely that they were lost in the remorseless seas.

Titus said a quick prayer for those lost in the darkness of the Abecean before thoughts of Kvatch started to fill his mind. Since the end of the Oblivion crisis the survivors of the city have been hard at work rebuilding. In the five months since Mehrunes Dagon was defeated the rubble had been mostly cleared from the streets and buildings have started to rise again. The people and the city were doing well under the eyes of Savlian Matius for the time being, the ruined city has yet to find a new count though Savlian carried the ring in his pocket.

Titus let out a breath and pulled a wineskin from a pouch hanging off his saddle. Uncorking it, and bringing it to his lips he felt the cool splash of water down his throat. The day was hot, and his armor didn't help in the least.

The bushes just off the side of the road started rustling as a young Altmer popped out from the foliage, an Elven bow in hand, arrow already notched. Titus dropped his wineskin, not hearing it hit the ground and spilling its contents across the road. Instinct immediately made him reach for his sword, his heels digging into his horse's flanks to urge it forward.

The world blurred as Titus focused everything on this bandit before him, the sword sliding from its sheath, glinting in the bright light. His mouth opened and a scream of fury poured forth directed to the poor soul before him, sword lifted above his head, ready to bring the blade down towards the bandit's unarmored neck.

Pain exploded through his side, rocking him in his saddle. Titus looked down to see an arrow sticking out from under his armpit. A second bandit was crouched in the foliage setting another arrow on his bow just as the first bandit released his own, hitting Titus in the chest. The arrow and bow were both surprisingly good quality and the arrow punched through Titus' cuirass, slicing through flesh, between ribs and tearing into his lung.

His horse feeling the man's heel weakening their hold slowed down to a stand still. Titus looked forward, blood bubbling down his chin, anger filled his gaze as he stared at the bandit before him. A third arrow hit him in the side and the legion soldier fell from his horse, hitting the ground hard. He felt the what little breath he had burst from his lungs, could feel blood bubbling around the wound in his chest, soaking into his shirt. He felt so tired, could feel his life slipping away. His hand reached out for his sword which had fallen somewhere, but he couldn't find it.

The bandit who had been on the road stepped over Titus, and took off the soldier's helmet. He held a knife in his hand, and brought the blade down so it rested gently on the skin of Titus' throat. Titus stared up at him, trying to voice words of anger, but all he could do was sputter, small globs of blood splattered across his face.

"Sorry soldier… this is war now," the Elf said, before his knife slid across Titus' throat, splitting skin, veins and arteries. Bright red blood squirted weakly from the wound as the Elf stood and wiped his dagger off with a cloth.

As the road was stained crimson, Titus looked up at the two men. War? His mind was full of confusion as he slipped into darkness.

* * *

Gnisis had once been a lively little village. Up here on the north western shore of Vvardenfell, where fishing had been good, and the separation from Morrowind politics a relief.

Now though, it had been touched by the merciless hand of war. Most of the buildings were in ruins, smoke drifting from their ruined forms. Healers and soldiers alike walked across the small battle field looking for any survivors amongst the torn bodies, Imperial legionaries mixed with Nord warriors and Orc mercenaries, their blood flowing from wounds and intermingling in the mud with their enemies. Archers walked through the mess, pulling arrows from the ground and the bodies of the slain. Tattered Imperial banners fluttered in the breeze, the standard bearers slumped to the ground and still holding their colours in death. The caw of ravens filled the air as the black birds flew down to gorge themselves on the remains. No one had the strength or resolve left to scare them away.

Ariane Furtivus looked across the ruins of the town from the top of Fort Darius, leaning against the battlements of the small and simple structure, letting out a long sigh. Despite the horrid losses here on Vvardenfell, it was just a skirmish compared to the battles waging on the mainland. She had heard tales while in Ebonheart, stories of blood flowing like rivers, the screams of men seeming to be echoes from Oblivion.

"Ma'am?" came the deep voice of one of the Legionnaires.

Ariane turned her head to acknowledge the Orc soldier.Nash gro-Khazor, sergeant of the Imperial Legion, had been here in Gnisis for years, had seen the Nerevarine come and rise to power, had seen the fall of Dagoth Ur, and now could very well be witnessing the fall of Morrowind. The green skin of his face was marred by a vicious scar that ran across his cheek and through the ruins of his nose, a mark left by a fellow Orc in the initial landing on Vvardenfell about two months before.

"They've struck hard for a simple egg farming community," Ariane said turning her gaze back towards the battlefield. Nash followed suit, and joined his commander by leaning on the battlements himself.

"Gnisis would be a good foothold to launch attacks from, and she's not as defended as Khull. Considering they are attacking from Solstheim it makes more sense than assaulting our primary northern port. Bastards aren't dumb despite the jokes," the sergeant said, glad that the Knight of the Imperial Dragon was not too proud to ask the opinions of lowly grunts.

"Unfortunately for us. The fact that they have been warriors since birth and most of our own are simply soldiers doesn't help either," Ariane said glumly.

"If you don't mind me saying ma'am, I think that you're wrong there," Nash said, tearing his eyes from the field to look at his commander.

"Speak your mind sergeant, don't leave me in suspense," Ariane retorted matching the soldier's gaze.

"It all comes down to discipline ma'am. Sure one on one a warrior would defeat a soldier. But in open warfare, where strategy and formations count for as much as fighting skill, the Legion will always have the advantage. That's why our instructors have always tried to drill that warrior instinct out of us that were 'born to be warriors'. For most of us, its worked and we're still alive," Nash said.

Ariane let out a small humorless laugh as she digested the words. She stood up and started walking away from the sergeant, back towards the trap door leading deeper into the fort.

"If you can discipline one warrior… what about all the others? Like you said sergeant, they're not dumb," the Imperial commander said before disappearing within the fort, leaving Nash alone to ponder not alone his own chances for survival, but also for the men he fought with.

His brothers.

* * *

Lucien signed the necessary paper work while Vieira pulled her belongings from an oaken chest at the dungeon entrance. Vieira's legs felt a little wobbly after climbing all the steps, she'd been in the cell way too long. She now faced long sessions of personal physical training to get her edge back.

"Thank you sir, that'll be all of it," the warden behind the desk told Lucien as the final sheet was signed. The battle mage shook his head in wonder as the sheets were pulled away to be filed by some clerk and forgotten.

Vieira had all her belongings dumped into a backpack that was handed to her. It was all accounted for: her curved dagger, leather armor, scaling claws, and her personal favorite item; a small crossbow which folded down for easy concealment. The weapon was as lethal as any other in her arsenal, and so very feared, especially here in Cyrodil where crossbows were about as rare as a personal visit from the gods. She wouldn't doubt if she had one of the only ones.

"So… where are my quarters?" Vieira asked her new boss.

"Well, despite getting you out of prison, you're not moving very far," Lucien said, nodding his hooded head towards a small three story tower that had been built just off of the Legion barracks.

"In there?" Vieira asked, already knowing the answer.

"Yes, the Stone Tower as it has been coined by the troops, is for us knights of the Stone Dragon. Let me give you the guided tour," Lucien said walking up to the front door, unlocking it, and walking in.

The interior was plainly decorated, which was fine for the assassin's tastes. A simple staircase hugged the back wall, and led up to the second floor. Here was a simple table with a few benches around it. A second door led off to what Vieira presumed was the kitchens.

"This level is where we take meals and gather for whatever meetings are required," Lucien said, sweeping his hand around the room before starting up the stairwell. Vieira shook her head and followed.

The second floor had a small landing in before the next flight of stairs began. The landing was big enough to turn and step comfortably into the room itself. Six single beds with fresh looking sheets and pillows were arrayed around the circular room. At the foot of each bed was an oaken chest hardened with steel. Each had a set of keys sitting on the bed.

"The sleeping quarters," Lucien said.

"It looks unused," Vieira stated.

"You're the first of us besides myself," Lucien said simply.

Vieira couldn't help but laugh, as she took in the room. It was much better than the prison cell. Though she was somewhat looking forward to other people to talk with. After so long in that cell companionship was quite valuable.

Lucien was already heading up the next flight of stairs. Vieira quickly gathered herself and started up after him.

The third floor had the most decorations, and that was only because it was the only true inhabited room. A simple bed like those on the floor below was nestled against a wall, a desk against the opposite one. The other walls were lined with bookshelves and ancient tapestries. Some of the hangings depicted artwork of battles and historic times, while others seemed a long scroll of text that Vieira could never hope to decipher.

"This is the library and my own quarters. Anyone is allowed in here to gather whatever information may be needed. In the desk there are maps, parchments, quills, inks, whatever you may need for the administrative side of your work. Trust me, it is all in here," Lucien said with a small little smile.

The battle mage was comfortable in this room; he felt at peace.

"So… what are my rules?" Vieira asked.

"For now, you have your time to yourself. Check in twice a day with me to see if there is anything that needs be doing," Lucien said quietly as he started to pull his armor off.

Vieira immediately turned her eyes away and started back down to her level. Lucien did not call after her. Freedom: after so many months it had an odd taste, but she wanted more. Vieira threw her bag in a chest, locked it up and laid claim to a bed before pocketing her keys and heading out into the city.

It was time to live once more, before any chance of that was taken by war and strife.


End file.
